


Disasters

by CaptainCoughdrop



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Denmark and Japan are the main characters, In case you're wondering, Multi, Of Grand Duchies and Satellite States, and others - Freeform, but that's mainly for historical accuracy, but the storyline thus far will remain basically the same, but they're either a ~surprise~, does include OCs, more characters will be added, or they aren't really that important, so some of the works from that series will be chapters here, some will be edited, there will be relationships, this is me making my Disasters series into a multi-chapter work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-02-09 09:16:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18635215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainCoughdrop/pseuds/CaptainCoughdrop
Summary: When the USSR insisted on taking Schleswig-Holstein as part of East Germany, nobody raised an eyebrow. When they kept going north, people got upset - but nobody wanted any more war.And when the USSR marched south after WW2 and took control of Japan, in exchange for allowing America the entirety of the Korean peninsula, people shrug it off.Nobody expects it to end the way it does.(Historical AU, and the amalgamation of my Disasters series into one single fic. Any works I like will be made chapters - eg of Grand Duchies and Satellite States - whilst others will just be used as a basis.)





	1. Of Going Home and Having Fun

**Author's Note:**

> In which Denmark and Japan basically become North Korea instead of, y'know, North Korea.
> 
> It's going to start off with mainly Denmark for these first few chapters, but other characters will narrate other chapters.

**5 th May**

Mathias’ excitement had been building ever since he arrived in Lübeck. Honestly, he’d wondered if he’d make it – Germany was in a pretty bad way these days. He hadn’t seen Ludwig since the Allies had begun their invasion back in March. Even Gilbert was a rare sight these days, and everybody that had lived in the house had disappeared by now, back to their own homes. Mathias had been the last to go, by choice more than anything. But for all that he missed his home horribly and achingly, he worried for Ludwig and Gilbert an awful lot. Maybe they weren’t for Lukas and Emil, or even Berwald and Tino, but for Mathias they were cousins. Of course, nations didn’t _have_ relations, for all that they used words like brother and sister to describe each other, but Ludwig and Gilbert were his cousins in all the ways that mattered.

Still, he couldn’t help being excited. Guilty, yes, but excited. Almost hysterically so. It had never taken much to get him to bounce around – ‘like a puppy’, Lukas had said once, during one of their better periods, when Mathias’ excitability had been deemed a charming aspect rather than an irritating one – and returning home after a few years living so far away was definitely more than enough to do it.

As the ferry came into view of Copenhagen – the greatest and most beautiful city in the world, in Mathias’ humble opinion – he could hardly contain himself. There had been a group of kids on the ferry, and since they’d been up on desk as well, and since Mathias was quite a trustable guy, he was basically left to watch them and make sure none of them fell overboard or anything.

Since children were some of the few people able to keep up with Mathias’ energy and even outdo it, it was pretty great. It reminded Mathias of running around after Seeri when she’d been but a baby – Emil and Berwald had been really shy, bookish kids who hadn’t needed much running after, but Seeri had been a more than made up for it by being a hellion.

These kids weren’t as bad as Seeri – he’d yet to meet another child with her deadly combination of cunning, mischief and sheer enthusiasm for causing chaos – but they were more than enough to keep Mathias occupied and from combusting from pure anticipation.

Still, when they finally docked at Copenhagen, Mathias’ excitement was almost uncontainable. He spoke to immigrations, got his bag and – hey presto! In a mere two days he’d reached home. And to think, if it hadn’t been for the war, he could’ve done it in half the time – really, modern engineering was a marvel.

Mathias was almost skipping as he left the cool building and entered the sun. It was a warm, balmy summers day, and Copenhagen was at its best. Everywhere people were laughing and shouting and celebrating. Children were running around – a few ran _into_ him, but he laughed it off, patting their heads absently – and for once their parents didn’t admonish them. Nearby, a group were tending a small bonfire, on which people were throwing squares of black cloth – blackout curtains, Mathias realised, and he couldn’t help but grin. It was over. It was all over.

By the time he’s made it back to his house that evening – a nice terrace on Højbro Plads – he’s managed to wear off most of his energy. His house looks as it always has – three stories, painted creamy white, with the front door painted red. Mathias paused, and then entered.

The whole house was covered in a thick layer of dust, after five years of being uninhabited. Mathias set down his bag on a table, and then sneezed when it sent a plume of dust into his face. He rubbed his eyes and strolled out of the entrance way and into the living room. Everything was… exactly as he remembered it. Just with one major difference.

_It had been in the March of 1937 when Lukas had arrived out of the blue on Mathias’ doorstep, a rare occasion since the days of Napoleon. Mathias had been thrilled – and so had Emil, for all that he disguised it – because he’d thought that Lukas had decided to stay with them for a weekend. Even just an afternoon._

_But from the very beginning, it was obvious Lukas had come for a reason, and that reason wasn’t to socialise. He’d put up with Mathias’ exuberant hug when he’d first opened the door – Mathias had promised himself he wouldn’t hug him the time before, because for all that Lukas claimed he didn’t really care so long as he didn’t do it excessively he never reciprocated, but when he saw Lukas there, looking beautiful as ever, he couldn’t help himself. And as usual, Lukas had just sort of leant against him briefly, before extricating himself and walking past Mathias to see Emil. Just like always._

_“I’m taking Emil back to Norway,” he’d said, once they were sat down with tea and cake in the kitchen. Mathias, who’d been expecting Lukas to be here on business rather than pleasure, had still felt surprise._

_“But it’s not time yet!” he’d protested, “I’ve got another two months with Isnende until he goes to stay with you for summer!”_

_“Well he’s coming early,” Lukas had answered sharply, his eyes boring into Mathias’, “He’s my brother.”_

_Mathias had no answer to this. He never did. He wondered, as he always did when Lukas – of anybody else, for that matter – brought up that particular argument, if he should point out that he was the one who had looked after Emil for years and years, and besides, nation siblings were more down to choice than relation, but he didn’t. Because he knew Lukas missed Emil and felt bad that they didn’t see each other more, and Mathias didn’t want to hurt Lukas. He never did._

_(He’d once worried that Emil might be upset if Mathias didn’t disagree with Lukas when this argument came up, because when they were at home together Mathias called him lillebror all the time, and when he was in a good mood Emil would call him bror. But Emil loved his brother, and Mathias soon found that Emil would play along with a lot of what Lukas said when he was present. It hurt a bit, but Emil was just a kid, and he and Lukas didn’t see each other as much as when he was a baby. He got it. It was fine.)_

_Seeing that Mathias had no response to any of this, Lukas turned to Emil, who’d been eating his third slice of chocolate cake with relish – Mathias usually limited the amount of cake he could eat to about one slice at a time, but on special occasions he was generally just allowed to do as he wished._

_“Emil,” he’d said, “Go and pack.”_

_“Wait, now?” said Mathias, alarmed, even as Emil hopped out of his chair and trotted upstairs. “Aren’t you going to stay for dinner, at least?”_

_Lukas paused, which made Mathias feel better. “Well…”_

_“There’s a fishmonger down the road, I could go buy some cod and we could have torsk,” Mathias added, “Or I could pick up something else – whatever you like.”_

_Lukas looked, for a moment, like he was considering it, before shaking his head. “No. I’ve booked us both on the early boat tonight, so we’d better go quite soon.”_

_“Can’t you just take tomorrow’s crossing?” Mathias didn’t mean for it to sound so whiny, but he couldn’t help it. He hardly ever got to see Lukas, these days, and he’d probably be on his own for a while unless someone came to visit. He didn’t like being on his own. “I’ll pay for it.”_

_“No,” said Lukas with an edge of exasperation, “I have work tomorrow.”_

_Mathias sighed, but he knew from the stubborn set to Lukas’ face that he’d get no further by arguing the point. Instead he sat back and rubbed a hand over his face. “Have another cup of tea, at least?”_

_Lukas pursed his lips but nodded. As Mathias stood to refill his cup, and Lukas watched him._

_“Aren’t you going to ask why?” asked Lukas after a while. Mathias glanced up._

_“Well, I assume you have a reason,” said Mathias. In truth, it was more because Lukas was always very sensitive when it came to his brother, and Mathias didn’t want to upset him. He didn’t really know where they stood these days, in terms of his and Lukas’ relationship, not since the end of the Napoleonic Wars and they were split up. Sometimes he desperately wanted to ask – but mostly he was afraid of what the answer would be. “But I did wonder.”_

_Lukas sighed, in that particular way that suggested Mathias was being particularly dense. It was… faintly aggravating, but Mathias didn’t say anything, and instead passed Lukas his cup._

_“It’s Germany,” Lukas said, once he’d taken a sip of tea and deemed it acceptable, “I’m worried about what they’ve been up to of late.”_

_Mathias couldn’t say he blamed him – he’d been quite worried too, since the new Fuhrer came into power. The last time he’d been visited by Francis, he’d been worried as well, and so had Abel the last time they’d seen each other. Added to the fact that Ludwig and Gilbert, who visited more often than most, hadn’t been over in probably over a year…_

_Well, nowadays people said that the concept of bad omens was ridiculous, but Mathias was beginning to get a little concerned._

_“Well, yeah, I think we all are,” Mathias said. “Do you think we’re in trouble?”_

_“I think something’s coming,” responded Lukas grimly, “And I think it’s very easy for the Nazis to get here.”_

_Mathias nodded, and took a sip of tea. He’d never admit it, but he wished Lukas would tell him he should leave too. He’d say no, because he couldn’t leave his people, but it would have been nice._

_“Yeah, I suppose,” he agreed. “So, about dinner-”_

_Before Mathias could finish the question, Emil reappeared in the kitchen, decked out in travelling clothes and holding his suitcase – actually an old briefcase of Mathias’ that he’d wanted so that he could look grown-up – and looking excited. Mathias did his best not to feel hurt, because he knew Emil missed his brother and they didn’t get to see each other all the time, but there was still a little twinge. It was only worsened as Emil squirmed out of his goodbye bear-hug, and when neither he nor Lukas looked back when he shouted farewell._

_After that, he’d stayed in the house for a little longer, but as time went on, it got rather lonely. In fact, by the time Gilbert and Ludwig arrived on his doorstep and demanded he go with them to Germany the day after the invasion, he’d already put most of his – and Emil’s – belongings into storage and moved into a small flat._

It only took two days of living in his house and considering getting his belongings back for Mathias to give up and return to the flat, only visiting his house to check for mail.

 

 

**10 th May**

Mathias considered returning to his office, but quite frankly, nothing seemed to disastrously bad in the nation at the moment considering what had happened, and he figured that they could probably deal without his help. He _did_ pay a visit to the King and Queen, of course, but it was more of a friendly visit than anything else. He’d known the family line since the very beginning, and he was very fond of them.

But for the most part, he decided to take a holiday and just enjoy being back home. He went out drinking, he celebrated the end of occupation. Despite what many seemed to think, Mathias didn’t have many friends amongst humans – not close friends, anyway – but he didn’t have any enemies, either, and plenty knew him well enough that he had people to go out drinking with.

Honestly, it was pretty fun.

However.

Mathias still hadn’t heard from Emil. He assumed he’d been staying with Berwald, or perhaps somebody else, because it seemed a little counterproductive for Lukas to keep him with him when the Nazis had invaded Norway as well. Perhaps he was back home – Mathias couldn’t deny his pride when he heard that Iceland had gained independence, for all that it was a bittersweet feeling. The baby of the family was growing up. He’d turned five-hundred recently too, and Mathias had missed it. He regretted that, for all that he hadn’t really had any choice in the matter. He’d have to make it up to Emil the next time they saw each other. Hopefully soon.

Mathias hadn’t been allowed to send letters to his family when he’d been living with Ludwig and Gilbert. Although, as he’d pointed out, he hadn’t the faintest idea where Lukas had been throughout the war, nor Emil and Tino, and he and Berwald didn’t really speak anymore.

(It used to be a jokey sort of thing, or so Mathias thought, but as time went on, he began to wonder if Berwald actually just didn’t like him. But he tried not to think about that too much.)

Anyway, once he got back to Copenhagen, Mathias did write Emil a letter, and sent it to Lukas’ house. Nothing too excessive. Just explaining that he would be staying with his people for a fortnight or so, until he was sure everything was okay; that he was so proud of him being a big grown-up independent country these days; to wish him a belated happy 500th; and just to say that he was welcome back any time.

But… he couldn’t help but notice…

None of his family had sent him anything. Mathias hadn’t really expected anything from Berwald, and maybe he shouldn’t have expected anything from Lukas either, going by their recent relationship, but he had hoped. Even just a telegram. _Anything_. Even Tino, who was the one person who Mathias had thought _would_ write to him – because there was a good chance Emil hadn’t got his letter yet, and Seeri very rarely wrote anyway – because they were sort of friends, didn’t send anything. And Mathias hadn’t reached out either, but he couldn’t help but wonder why it was always him who _had_ to reach out.

(Actually, the only person to write to Mathias during those two weeks ended up being Ludwig – a guilty letter, apologising for his actions to Mathias personally. It was obviously something he’d sent to several other nations as well, but it was still a sweet gesture, and Mathias made sure to write back immediately. After all, Ludwig was still young – it boggled Mathias’ mind how fast that boy had grown, it seemed only yesterday that a proud Gilbert was introducing him for the first time – and Mathias was fond of him.)

Maybe it was some remaining resentment left over from the war, maybe it was Mathias just being stubborn, but he decided not to contact anyone else just yet. He knew himself well enough to know that he’d probably cave in sooner rather than later, but for now, he’d just enjoy being home. He’d talk to his family later.


	2. Of Goodbyes and Invasions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mathias, despite his rather wild childhood, was not someone who enjoyed violence for violence’s sake. Nor did he particularly enjoy arguing, if he could avoid it. The words of Larsen from earlier that night came back to him – people are going to think we’ve gone soft. And sure, maybe they would – but wasn’t it better to be known as gentle than violent? Surely being a good person was more important than being a good warrior?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which stuff starts going wrong for poor Mathias.

**19th May 1945**

Mathias was sitting bold upright in bed before he’d even woken up. This wasn’t necessarily strange – he was a light sleeper and a fidget in bed, and he often woke up in odd positions – but as soon as he conscious he new that something was badly wrong. Foreign armies, marching over his land. He shook his head fiercely, and when that didn’t help, he pinched his arm as hard as he could, just in case it was just leftover memories of the Nazis. No dice. He could still feel it.

Nothing for it. He slipped out of bed, and looked out of the window, and despite the invasive feeling he wasn’t surprised to see nothing. After all, for all that they were rivals, he doubted the Swedes would invade his land, and Copenhagen – positioned as it was on Sjaelland – was far enough away that it took a while to reach.

Mathias tugged on his shirt and trousers, toed on the nearest shoes to him, and yanked on a jumper, before hurrying out of his flat without bothering to lock it (there wasn’t much in there that would be worth stealing anyway, and even if it was stolen he wasn’t particularly attached to any of it.

His bicycle was in the little garden to the back of the building, so Mathias took the route out the back way, cycling as fast as he could, which was quite fast. It was probably a good thing nobody else was out – what time was it? Mathias hadn’t thought to check. Very late, clearly.

Mathias’ flat was further from the government than his house was – over by the Central Station, in fact – but still only five minutes of a morning and going fast he could make it in four. That night, he made the journey in three. During the night – especially this late, because nobody was out except for Mathias – the building was usually quiet, with only the streetlights outside turned on. But tonight the lights were blazing, and Mathias could see people rushing about. He leant his bike against the outside wall even though he’d got yelled at the last time he did and hurried inside.

Pausing only to wave to the secretary, Mrs Jensen, Mathias made his way through the large building to his boss’s office. Around him, politicians were hurrying around, looking extremely stressed, and even scared. None of these things were good signs.

Vilhelm Buhl was in his office, along with Aksel Larsen, Hans Hedtoft and Christmas Møller, and none of them looked happy. Larsen especially looked extremely worried, and Mathias felt his stomach sink, because he got it now. Really, there was only one nation it could logically be.

He hadn’t thought much of it, to be honest, when the USSR insisted on the taking of Schleswig-Holstein along with the rest of Eastern Germany, aside from worrying for Gilbert, who – according to Ludwig’s letter – had become the representation of that side of the country and had been taken to live with Ivan in Russia, and concern for all the Danes living there. But it was something he had no control over, and anyway, the war was over! He couldn’t imagine that Russia – who he’d heard had been hit pretty hard – would want any more violence.

Except that’s the only people it could have been. Field-Marshal Montgomery had left last week, as had the majority of Allied soldiers that had been held in Danish prisons – although Bornholm was still being occupied by English soldiers (it had been a trade in – the Allies would put up with Russia taking Schleswig-Holstein despite their wishes so long as Bornholm was handed over – it was very ironic). Mathias was well aware that his own military was weak to non-existent right now, aside from resistance fighters who weren’t nearly enough to hold off the might of the Soviet army.

“It’s the Soviets,” he said as soon as he entered the room, and it wasn’t a question. Buhl nodded grimly. No wonder Larsen was looking so tense.

“They’re marching up from Germany,” said Hedtoft, tracing a finger up Jutland, “And from what we hear from out contacts there, there are ships leaving from Rostock and Kiel.” He pointed them out on the map, before drawing a route around the islands. “So we think the Schleswig soldiers will probably take Jutland first, then the Kiel soldiers will probably take Funen and then help with Jutland… possibly Lolland and Falster too.” He went back to Rostock. “And these soldiers are probably coming our way.”

Mathias took a deep, somewhat shaky breath.

He was well aware that, for all the hardships the war had brought to Denmark, he’d been incredibly lucky. When he compared himself to the other nations who had lived at Ludwig and Gilbert’s house – and even to Gilbert and Ludwig themselves – he’d remained relatively well-fed and healthy throughout. Abel, for instance – he’d looked horrible by the end of the war, like a walking skeleton, and it had been awful.

Mathias knew he was somewhat superstitious, and that he may just be proven wrong, but the fact that he’d gotten off so lightly before made him think that he wouldn’t get off so lightly this time.

But he had to think positively – that was what he was good at, right? Thinking positive, being happy, keeping a smile.

“What can we do?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

Hedtoft huffed a humourless laugh. “What else can we do?” he asked rhetorically, “We have to surrender.”

“People are going to think we’ve gone soft, I fear,” said Møller, still gazing at the map. “But we can’t fight them off – and if we try, I have a horrible feeling that things will be worse for us.”

“Probably,” said Mathias grimly, “That damned Stalin – he’s a maniac. God knows what he’d do.”

Larsen went a little pale. Mathias felt a twinge of guilt, and also a much larger feeling of concern. The man had only just come out of hiding for his political views, and he’d already been banished in Russia for criticising Stalin once, and Mathias had heard about what happened during the Soviet annexation of Estonia. Things… didn’t look good. Not for any of them, to be honest.

“What about King Christian?” he asked, because he couldn’t imagine the Soviets would be as accommodating of a monarch as the Nazis had been (and Mathias had honestly been amazed that King Christian had managed to remain in power, especially after the incident with the telegram). Besides, what about the other royals? Perhaps he was being childish, but Mathias liked his monarchy. Oh, certainly they would do the damnedest things sometimes, and some of them had him tearing his own hair out, but he’d known that family for a long, long time, and he’d got very fond of them. And proud, to be honest.

But he’d rather for his monarchy to survive abroad and live to one day return, than for all of them to, at the very least, be taken from power. And the children – ten-year-old Elisabeth, five-year-old Margrethe and Ingolf, two-year-old Christian and one-year-old Benedikte – Mathias dreaded to think what might happen to them. And there were others, countless cousins and relatives by marriage scattered about Denmark – what would happen to them?

“Queen Alexandrine, her children and her grandchildren have gathered at her residence in Amalienborg and are in the process of being evacuated to Sweden,” Møller answered, “They should be leaving very soon. I believe many of the other royals are also planning their escape, but King Christian is adamant that he will stay.”

“Perhaps you can convince him,” said Buhl, tearing his gaze away from the map. “There’s not an awful lot for you to help with here.”

“Alright,” said Mathias, stepping back from the table and cursing his hands for shaking slightly. He made to leave the room, before he paused. “You know – I hate to say this, but maybe you four should consider doing something similar.” He cast a significant look at Larsen, who gave a grim smile. “I’ll see you later.”

 

Amalienborg was, like Christianborg, lit up in a way it usually wouldn’t be at this time of night. The Royal Guard stepped forward at first, looking extremely nervous, but relaxed as soon as they recognised him. He was a regular visitor, after all.

Mathias jogged up the steps to the front door and slipped inside.

“Onkel Mats!” Ingolf and Margrethe came flying down the corridor, both dressed in neat but drab day clothes – clearly an attempt to blend in if things went wrong. Margrethe threw her arms around his waist whilst Ingolf grabbed his wrist. He looked frightened. Mathias put on the most cheerful smile he could in the situation and ruffled his hair whilst he tugged gently on one of Margrethe’s plaits.

“Papa says we have to go to Sweden, Mats!” said Margrethe, detaching herself from his waist and grabbing his other hand. “Is it true?”

“It is, I’m afraid,” smiled Mathias. “Where is your Papa? Could you bring me to him?”

The two five-year-olds led him down the corridor, and as they approached another child appeared at the top of the stairs. Elisabeth looked terrified at first, but as soon as she realised who it was she gave a sigh of relief and clattered towards him.

“Hi, Elisabeth,” Mathias smiled as she reached him. She looked pleased to see him, but also very worried – Mathias guessed that she alone of the kids knew what was really going on.

“Is it true?” she asked, staring up at Mathias, “About why we have to leave?”

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, even though he wished she didn’t have to know. But then he sometimes considered thirty-year-olds to be ‘too young’, even though by human standards they apparently were.

“Do you think they’ll catch us?” she whispered.

“I doubt it,” answered Mathias as soothingly as possible, “They’re hours away yet. You have plenty of time.”

“Who will catch us?” asked Ingolf, tugging at his hand as they walked down the hall.

“The valravn, of course,” smiled Mathias, sticking his tongue out at him. Thankfully, before Ingolf could laugh off this pathetic explanation, yet another person appeared. Princess Caroline-Mathilde stepped out into the hall, looking harried and holding her grizzling son, Christian. She gave him a brief smile, before calling for the children to come and get their bags.

“They’re upstairs,” she said to Mathias, guessing who he wanted to talk to, “Good luck.”

Amalienborg Palace in general and Christian VIII Palace in particular was very beautiful, and also a place Mathias had visited many times since it had been built, so he knew his way about just fine. Even with the rather sparse directions, he soon found his King and his Princes. King Christian was sat at his desk, his fingers laced together, dressed in his official military uniform complete with medals. Frederick and Knud, on the other hand, were both wearing civilian clothes. The difference could only mean that King Christian was being stubborn in his refusal to leave.

“Ah, Mathias!” King Christian greeted when Mathias stepped around the door. “I take it you’ve been sent to convince me to go to Sweden.”

“I won’t deny I have my orders,” Mathias responded, shrugging apologetically.

King Christian smiled at him, before ordering his sons out of the room and motioning for him to sit down.

“I take it you won’t be convinced,” said Mathias, a little sadly. King Christian laughed.

“I won’t leave my nation in its darkest hour, Mathias,” he smiled. “In any case, I can’t imagine this will last for long – either the Soviets will lose interest, or our resistance fighters will rise up once more, or perhaps our Allies will come to help us. From what I hear, the Soviets can barely feed the their own now, let alone with an extra few million people. I give it a year at most.”

(Mathias could remember Arthur telling him something similar when the First World War had broken out. This didn’t make him feel much better.)

He said as much to King Christian, but he just waved him off.

“Well, Soviets or no Soviets, I do not intend to leave. In fact, I don’t intend to leave this building. If Herre Stalin wishes to come to my country, he will come to meet _me_.”

“But what if-”

“Mathias.” King Christian cut him off, looking serious. “I think you forget that I am seventy-four years old. Whether I die or not, the monarchy will live on. Frederick is more than ready to take my place, I think, if it comes to that.”

“You don’t have to leave Denmark,” Mathias reminded him. “There’s still Faroe. Or Denmark. Or you could go to Greenland, even.”

King Christian laughed.

“I have survived one occupation by foreign forces and I intend to survive another,” he said with a confident smile. It wasn’t much, but it somehow made Mathias feel a little better. “I will stay as a symbol of Denmark. Although,” he looked at Mathias with a flicker of sympathy, “I take it you won’t be able to.”

That had been one thing Mathias had been deliberately avoiding thinking about since he woke up that night. He’d only got back to Copenhagen two weeks ago. He didn’t want to leave again, and especially not to _Russia_ of all places. No offence to Russia, of course, but according to Tino Ivan had moved his house up north from his original home in Moscow not long after the October Revolution. And somehow that was much worse than going to Germany.

Maybe because of the increased distance, maybe because he didn’t speak Russian, maybe because he didn’t feel the same level of familial connection with Ivan but going to live in Russia made him far more nervous than he had been when he was made to live in Bavaria. It brought a sick sort of feeling to his stomach whenever he thought about it, so to respond to King Christian he simply shrugged.

“Well, if that is all,” King Christian reached across the desk and held out his hand. “I hope that I will see you soon, Mathias. Would you send my sons back in to see me on your way?”

Well aware of this clear dismissal – he wasn’t _always_ an idiot – Mathias shook his King’s hand, before standing and leaving the room.

All too soon, he was waving as they were driven away to a small boat that would take them across the Sound to Malmö. As they smiled at the pale, smudgy faces of the children pressed against the back window and waving frantically, Mathias could feel the place where his stomach usually resided replaced by a hollow sort of emptiness which stayed with him as he made his way back to Christiansborg Slot.

It wasn’t that he was worried about _them_ , as such – after all, even aside from diplomatic goodwill, they had many familial connections in Europe. Ingred’s father was the King of Sweden, and King Haakon of Norway was King Christian’s brother. They’d be fine.

The next few hours passed in a blur. It was strange – there was nothing to do, and yet everybody seemed so very busy, rushing around and doing nothing particularly useful. Mathias was deeply relieved, upon his return, to find that Larsen, Møller and Hedtoft at the very least had taken his advice and decided to leave before the Soviets arrived. Buhl was still stood at his desk, his brow furrowed, glaring at his map and barking orders at anybody who came close.

Mathias himself, after a few more hours of trying to help out, finally realised that there wasn’t really anything to help with, and instead found himself a nice, isolated corner to light a cigarette and try to relax. It was a difficult thing to do, especially as he felt the Soviet warships closing in on his shorelines.

The soldiers in Jutland were advancing steadily north, met with no resistance whatsoever – it was so unexpected, and the military was so non-existent, that he could feel (with no small amount of dark humour) that many people didn’t even wake up. Some did, though, and some did fight back – resistance fighters from the war, farmers, anybody. Mathias flinched whenever he felt them being killed.

It was the longest, most awful wait of his entire life, and he’d lived an awfully long time.

But still, there was no relief to be felt when the Soviets reached Copenhagen, nor when he first heard the clicking of army boots as they crossed the threshold of Christiansborg Slot. He remained sat in his corner for a moment, feeling rather sick, before he forced himself to stand on leaden legs.

He’d run out of cigarettes anyway.

He wished, absently, as he joined Buhl in greeting the Soviet general, that he’d popped home at some point during the last few hours to get changed. Compared to Ivan, stood tall beside his general wearing a neatly pressed army uniform, with what appeared to be a Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder (which had to be one of the least subtle attempts at intimidation Mathias had ever seen, but he supposed it did the job), he looked rather rumpled and scruffy in his cardigan, trousers and scuffed black shoes. He hadn’t even thought to brush his hair aside from running his fingers through it before he’d left the house.

“Hello,” says the General, through an interpreter stood at his side. He then goes into a lengthy spiel, but Mathias feels no particular need to listen. He already knew what the speech would contain – it was the classic ‘we have annexed you but it’s a good thing’ speech, with a healthy dash of ‘and even if you disagree there is nothing you can do about it’ added in. Mathias had heard it many times over the course of his life. He didn’t need to listen again.

Instead he focused vaguely on the middle-distance, ignoring the translator’s badly accented Danish, before he noticed that Ivan was watching him. There was a curious expression in his eyes – a sort of smug satisfaction, like he was waiting – or hoping – for some sort of reaction. Maybe anger, or even fear, but Mathias wasn’t going to give him anything like that sort of satisfaction.

Instead, he turned his gaze and caught Ivan’s eye, before smiling cheerfully. He was good at faking smiles like that, and even if he wasn’t…

Mathias, despite his rather wild childhood, was not someone who enjoyed violence for violence’s sake. Nor did he particularly enjoy arguing, if he could avoid it. The words of Larsen from earlier that night came back to him – _people are going to think we’ve gone soft_. And sure, maybe they would – but wasn’t it better to be known as gentle than violent? Surely being a good person was more important than being a good warrior?

If he is honest, he probably had it easiest out of all the nations being made to live at Ludwig and Gilbert’s house, which is probably why he found it easiest to get along with them. But even if Denmark suffered under the USSR, Mathias would at least attempt to get along with Ivan; he was more than old enough to understand that a nation’s decisions didn’t always mirror those of its politicians, no matter how difficult remembering that could be sometimes.

The General finally wrapped up his spiel. The translator looked relieved. Ivan stepped forward.

“Of course, Mathias will come to live with me and the rest of the satellite states,” he said, in French since it was a language that they both understood. Mathias could see Buhl watching him from the corner of his eyes, willing him to be polite and not cause trouble, but there was no need. Mathias may be goofy, but he understood his duty to his nation. He stepped forward also, and held out his hand to shake.

“That sounds fine, Ivan,” he says, before forcing back a wince when Ivan gripped his hand tightly. Very tightly. Mathias knows what this is – Ivan wants a reaction, no matter how small. He wants to hurt him. Why, he isn’t sure, because Mathias can’t remember having any particular quarrel with Ivan personally, but he doesn’t bother to ask.

“Good!” Ivan’s sweet smile belied the vicious look in his eyes. “Then shall we go?”

“Right now?” asked Mathias, slightly surprised, but not really. “Do you mind if I get changed?”

“I’m afraid not. We need to leave as soon as possible.”

“I see,” replies Mathias, knowing well that there was little point in arguing. “Vilhelm, would you mind having my office cleared and put with my other belongings? And my flat?”

“Yes, of course,” smiled Vilhelm, a sad expression in his eyes. They shook hands, and then Mathias was forced to follow Ivan out of the doors of Christiansborg Slot, to a military truck stood in the streets. Soldiers are stood around, leant against buildings, holding their guns at the ready, and it’s that, more than anything, that shakes Mathias. To see his streets like this – to see peaceful Copenhagen populated with so many foreign soldiers so soon after they’d gained their freedom from the Nazis – hurt like a kick to the heart.

Mathias swallowed, glad that Ivan wasn’t looking at him, but he was careful to allow no hurt to show on his face.

When Ivan turned around, he just smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vilhelm Buhl: Prime Minister of Denmark at this point  
> Aksel Larsen: a politician and member of the Danish Socialist Party. Whilst attending school in Russia, he criticised Stalin and was banished to Nizhny Novgorod before returning to Denmark. During WW2 he went into hiding.  
> Christmas Moller: a politician who ran a Danish-language radio forn England during the war, criticising the Germans and encouraging resistence movements.  
> Hans Hedtoft: a politician - and later the prime minister - of Denmark, who was critical of the Nazis and instrumental in the rescue of the Danish Jews.  
> King Christian: king of Denmark between 1912 and 1947, and a major symbol of the Danish resistance against the Germans.  
> Frederick: King Christian and Queen Alexandrine's son, who would later become King Frederick IX of Denmark.  
> Knud: Frederick's younger brother.  
> Ingred: Frederick's wife and later the Queen of Denmark.  
> Caroline-Mathilde: Knud's wife  
> Elisabeth, Ingolf and Christian: Caroline-Mathilde and Knud's three children.  
> Margrethe and Benedikte: Frederick and Ingred's daughters - Margrethe would go on to become Queen  
> Christiansborg Slot: the location of the Danish Prime Minister's office  
> Amalienborg: residence of the Danish royal family  
> 'the incident with the telegram': King Christian responded curtly to a telegram sent by Adolf Hitler, prompting outrage by the Germans.


	3. Of Grand Duchies and Satellite States

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lounge remained silent as they all refused to address the elephant in the room. Actually, Tino was actively encouraging communication on the subject, but since everyone else in the room was an emotionally awkward idiot, it wasn’t happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve never written from Finland’s POV before, so I hope that I did okay – I wanted to represent him as someone who doesn’t like to upset people, but not too much of a pushover either.

**19th May 1945**

"Don't worry, Lukas, I’m sure he'll be here soon."

"Hmm."

Tino watched the Norwegian man worriedly as he stared at the book in his lap with an utterly blank expression. Emil, sat cross-legged on the floor and leant against Lukas' leg, also looked up at his brother, before dropping his gaze back to the puffin sat on his lap. Berwald, himself sat in his favourite armchair, looked away stiffly when Tino tried to catch his gaze.

The Finn sighed, and returned to his own armchair beside Berwald. The lounge remained silent, uncomfortably so, as they all refused to address the elephant in the room. Actually, Tino wasn't refusing at all, in fact, he was actively encouraging communication on the subject, but since everyone else in the room was an emotionally awkward idiot, it wasn’t happening.

Berwald, of course, was opposed to any discussion regarding the brother he'd complained about for as long as Tino had known him. Tino figured they _must_ have gotten along together once upon a time, maybe when Berwald was a small child, but neither Mathias nor Berwald would ever admit even a passing fondness for one another these days – although Tino would bet that they'd fight to the death to protect one another, if it came to it.

Emil, being a young teenager, was far too awkward to bring up the subject, and far too shy to admit any feelings on the matter when Tino did bring it up. Tino knew that Emil missed the man who had cared for him for so long, but Emil was very like his brother – far too stubborn to ever admit it. Tino felt very sorry for him, to be honest. For so long he'd been shuffled between living with Mathias, where the Dane caved in to his every whim, and Berwald's house to stay with Lukas, where he was also spoilt. Staying with Arthur, who was, whilst not cruel, not a man who would have given special treatment, must have been a shock to the system. Arthur was a stern man, after all, with lots of other territories to look out for in his house. Emil had gone from being a doted-on only child to one of many territories in a house he didn't know with people he was unfamiliar with. It must've been tough.

As for Lukas...

He and Emil had greeted each other, of course, with awkward prickliness from the younger and slightly overbearing concern from the elder (the 'big brother' argument had reared its head again, of course, but Tino had paid it little attention as it had come up so often that he could practically recite it in his sleep), but Tino knew that Lukas had certainly been looking for Mathias. In fact, as the last one to arrive, he'd spent the first half an hour looking slightly expectant, as if he expected Mathias to come bounding out of another room to wrap him in a bear hug at any moment.

Of course, that didn't happen, since Mathias was – to the best of Tino's knowledge – still on his way. At least, he'd _better_ be on his way. They'd already waited an entire week for him to turn up, and it had been around two weeks since the war ended and the Germans left Denmark, so he'd had time to ascertain his people were okay. In fact, Tino couldn't think of any reason he wouldn't turn up, seeing as Denmark had remained relatively peaceful and certainly there would be no reason for Mathias to be injured in any way that would stop him from catching a ferry and a train to Hörnsjö.

In fact, thought Tino, getting rather riled up, he should've been one of the first to arrive. He must've known that Emil would have missed him terribly, having been under the care of Arthur for the last five years, and he _must_ have known that Lukas would miss him. Tino wasn't entirely sure how exactly they _worked_ as a couple, but he knew that they did, and that they loved each other a lot. So why wasn't he here already?

The whole room jolted out of their thoughts as Berwald's phone rang from the hallway. Berwald got a sour look on his face, but stood... and picked up a tray from the coffee table.

"Would you get that?" He asked Tino roughly, in Finnish as he did when he wanted Tino to do something, like that would mollify him, "I need to get everyone more coffee."

"Yes, alright," sighed Tino, seeing as Emil balked at the very idea of a telephone conversation, and Lukas hadn't lifted his dull gaze from his book (which he'd been staring at for at least an hour without turning a page).

Berwald's phone was strategically – not really – located by the door, for reasons unknown to Tino. In his experience, people generally didn't hang around in the hallway when they were at home, and that was when one generally received phone calls. He'd have to mention it to Berwald later.

He picked up the black receiver and held it to his ear, but wasn't even able to say a simple 'hello' before a panicked voice said: "Turn on the radio, _now_."

"What?" He said, a little bewildered, "Why? Who is this?"

"It's Benkt," said the rushed voice on the other end of the line, "You need to turn on the radio - there's an emergency broadcast from Oslo."

"Alright," said Tino once again, feeling as though an ice cube had just slipped into his stomach. An emergency broadcast from Oslo could only mean bad news. "Alright, I'll do that. Thank you."

"And you," said Benkt distractedly, before hanging up. Tino dropped the phone back into the receiver, and almost ran back into the living room. Berwald's gigantic wooden radio (he refused to modernize and get a more modern version) was squatted in the corner of the room, and Tino immediately dashed towards it, turning the dials whilst throwing a quick glance at Lukas. He looked fine – a little confused to see Tino almost throw himself at the radio – but otherwise didn't appear as though anything too disastrous had happened back home.

"Just have to dance, Tino?" Asked Emil, watching him with bemusement as Tino struggled with the dials – oh how he hated these damned contraptions – as Berwald returned with three mugs of coffee and one of hot milk (perhaps Mathias and Lukas weren't the only ones to baby Emil).

Once Berwald had put Tino out of his misery and switched back to legible radio rather than squealing static with just a casual twist of the dials, they all sat back in their seats. Tino clutched his mug, his foot tapping anxiously.

"Are you alright?" Asked Berwald, touching his shoulder, "What's going on?"

"Apparently there's an emergency broadcast," Tino replied, not quite able to say that it was coming from Oslo, "Listen."

" _And now we interrupt our regular schedule for an emergency announcement from Oslo,_ " said the starchy voice of the radio operator. Tino's fingers tightened around the mug, feeling his heart rabbiting in his chest. It couldn't be the Nazis, right? They’d surrendered, from what Tino had heard. Perhaps a natural disaster? But what kind of natural disaster could happen in Norway? A flood? But then why wasn’t Lukas hurt? There was a cough and some shuffling from the radio.

“ _At a quarter past one this morning, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the USSR_ ” – Tino felt a flush of fury at the very mention of the name, and Berwald squeezed his hand soothingly – “ _marched north from the Schleswig-Holstein region of Germany and into the recently freed Kingdom of Denmark. Queen Alexandrine and the Princes Frederick and Knud have been evacuated to Oslo.”_

The fury from before was extinguished. Tino was now gripped by a terrible, horrible fear – this couldn’t be true, right? This had to be some sort of bad joke. The Soviets wouldn’t _dare_ such an act of aggression so soon after war, would they?

“ _The Kingdom of Denmark, having no military power, officially surrendered at half past two this morning, the nineteenth of May. Her Royal Highness Queen Alexandrine will be giving an official declaration on the current state of affairs from Oslo tomorrow._ ”

Tino felt sick. He couldn’t move. This couldn’t be real.

“ _All travel to and from Denmark is firmly discouraged by the Norwegian and Swedish governments. America has stated that it does not have the man-power to lend assistance, owing to both the occupation of Germany and the war against the Japanese in the Pacific. European Allied Nations are unwilling to restart hostilities with the Soviet Union._ ”

Tino’s heart thumped painfully in his chest.

“ _As of today, the nineteenth of May 1945, the Kingdom of Denmark is a satellite state of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics_.”

The radio went dead. For a moment, Tino thought the connection had cut off, before he looked around to see Emil stood by it, pale and shaking, and Tino was shocked to see tears glistening in his violet eyes. For a moment, everything was still and silent, before Emil suddenly bolted, throwing himself out of the room and into the hallway. Tino could hear his feet thumping on the stairs, and the slamming of a door and muffled sobs.

Berwald stood jerkily. Tino clutched his hand and looked up at him. His husband was also paler than usual, a little shocked (he’d looked the same way when the Nazis had invaded – Tino had a feeling that the concept of Denmark, and by extension, _Mathias_ being so vulnerable to attack was still a little unnerving to him).

“I need – government – call.” And with that, Berwald also stalked out of the room, and Tino could hear him dialing a number on his phone in the hallway.

That left Tino and Lukas. Almost afraid, Tino turned to look at the Norwegian, sat still as a statue on his armchair. His book had slid from his lap and to the floor – funny, Tino hadn’t even heard it – and Lukas’ knuckles were white as he clutched the armrests. His eyes were wide and blank, disturbingly so, and he looked as if he was lost in his own world, unseeing and unhearing.

“Lukas?” He said carefully, moving to the armchair, “Lukas? Norja?” Still nothing. “Norge?” Tino prodded his shoulder as hard as he dared.

Finally, Lukas seemed to snap out of his torpor somewhat. He turned to face Tino, blinking as though he’d just woken up from a deep sleep.

“Tell me it’s not true, Tino,” he said in an amazingly steady voice, “Tell me I didn’t just hear what I think I did.”

“I’m sorry, Lukas,” murmured Tino, “I’m really, really sorry.”

Lukas swallowed. “But – but _why_?” He murmured, “What do they want with Dan? Why isn’t anyone stopping them? Why –” He cut himself off, then he whirled around to grab the front of Tino’s shirt. Tino squeaked in surprise, and tried not to feel intimidated by the intensity in Lukas’ indigo eyes. “You lived with Ivan,” Lukas said, “You know what it’s like. Is he going to be okay?”

Tino hesitated.

He was unsure – because when he’d first become a territory of Russia, Ivan had treated him relatively well – he’d treated all of them quite well. He’d definitely been the one in charge, but he’d provided for them, he’d allowed them more freedom than many territories were granted. But Tino knew well that Ivan had grown more and more unstable as of late – he’d already started to act a little strangely in the months and years before Tino had left the house in 1917. And since then he knew that Ivan had been spiraling down into insanity ever since the October Revolution, becoming more and more violent and controlling, even moving from his large house in Moscow up north into the Arctic. Edouard had managed to get a few letters to Tino before the move, and Tino had to say, it didn’t sound good.

Plus, Tino had seen Ivan during the Winter War, and although they hadn’t spoken to one another face to face, Tino had been able to see the madness in Ivan’s eyes even through the scope of a rifle. And honestly? If Ivan was still like that, even after the war was over…

“Don’t worry, Lukas,” said Tino, searching desperately for the bright side in this very dark situation, “I’m sure he’ll be fine. Anyway, it won’t last too long, right? Denmark’s not that big of a country… I’m sure it’s not that strategically important. The Soviets will probably back off after a few months.”

“Yeah?” Tino could never remember Lukas ever being so desperate for comfort before, and it made him feel a little sick with fear. “You think so?”

“I do,” Tino replied, hoping that he sounded more confident than he felt.

“I’m sure we’ll all be together again very soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although Iceland (at the time a territory of Denmark) remained neutral during WW2, it was illegally invaded by Britain in 1940. My headcanon is that Emil went to stay with Arthur as an old friend of Lukas’, even after Iceland’s transferal to the USA in 1941. (It’s also at this point that he meets Hong Kong, who he rooms with at Arthur’s place, but that’s another fic for another day.)  
> Finland was a territory of the Russian Empire from 1809 to 1917, and it was called the Grand Duchy of Finland.  
> The Winter War was a war fought between Finland and Russia from 1939 to 1940.  
> Norja and Norge both mean Norway, in Finnish and Norwegian respectively.  
> Finally, Sweden is speaking clearly because he’s speaking Swedish. Since his mumbling is part of his thick accent when speaking English or other languages (another headcanon), he speaks clearly when he’s speaking Swedish or another language he speaks fluently (i.e. Finnish, other Nordic languages). Also I really hate writing accents and I probably won’t even if I do write him speaking English.


	4. Of Old and New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was hardly the first time Mathias had ever been punched, not did he imagine that it would be the last, but damn. For a guy so skinny Ivan was strong. He’d certainly come a long way from the chubby little kid Mathias had first met all those years ago.
> 
> He also doesn’t fail to notice that this had hardly been the most successful first five minutes in the Soviet household.

**22 nd May 1945**

Mathias shifted uncomfortably. Ivan’s preferred mode of transport – which is apparently a ZIS-5 – seemed wholly unnecessary to Mathias. Although he supposed that it was a good compromise between the bus that Ivan would need to transport all of the assorted satellite states and republics, and the tough sort of vehicle he’d need to survive the Russian winters.

And the winters would probably be awfully cold, not only because they were in Russia, but because they’d started doing north from Moscow and they had yet to stop. They’d been driving for hours and hours now, and Mathias was beginning to wonder if Ivan lived in the sea. He was also wondering why any nation needed so much land.

“Where are we going?” he finally asks, after about five hours of silence – he’d tried to make conversation, but Ivan had either given answers in Russian or completely ignored him. Mathias wouldn’t deny that he was a very talkative person, especially when he was nervous, and this constant silence was beginning to drive him insane.

At first, Ivan said nothing, and Mathias thought he wouldn’t answer again, but then he turned and said: “Arkhangelsk.”

Mathias waited for any further information, but Ivan had turned back to the bumpy dirt track they were driving over. On either side was forest. It had been forest for hours. Mathias was beginning to get really, really sick of forests. Russian forests in particular.

More prodding on Mathias’ part just led to him being completely blanked by Ivan, except for one when he got a severe frown in response, like Mathias was a little child on a long trip. It reminded Mathias of what Berwald did whenever Mathias was beginning to really get on his nerves – or when he just wanted to be annoying himself – and the thought of his brother made his stomach twist.

Why hadn’t he visited? Why hadn’t he written? Or phoned? Or sent a stupid telegram? _Anything_? They were his family, but he hadn’t done anything productive except sending two letters. He’d been selfish and stupid. Hell, in two weeks he could have _visited_ them. Sure, he’d still have had to go back and live with Ivan in Russia. But he could have made sure they were okay after the war and tell them he loved them – he could’ve had the chance to say goodbye. Instead, he’d spent an entire fortnight doing absolutely nothing but kicking back and having fun, usually with a bottle of beer in hand.

“I should warn you, tovarisch,” Ivan said suddenly, surprising Mathias and breaking him out of his circle of self-loathing. He sat up a little from where he’d been slouched, glaring out the window – still forests as far as the eye could see – and turned to Ivan. After all, he was unbelievably bored, and even if it was Ivan, and even if Ivan did seem to intensely dislike him for some reason or another, he wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity to have a conversation. “I do not enforce many rules at my home, but there is one that is very important.”

Mathias got the strong feeling that there were a lot more rules than Ivan was willing to tell him about, but he didn’t say anything. Hey, maybe he was wrong. Maybe Ivan’s house was like a free utopia. In the middle of an uninhabited forest with nobody else around for miles and miles. He hoped the truck didn’t break down. It would be a pig to fix out here. He decided that it probably wasn’t worth asking what ‘tovarisch’ meant. Ivan had already called him that several times, so he assumed he’d figure it out for himself at some point.

“Oh, ok,” he says, because there’s no point rocking the boat if he doesn’t have to. He’s lasted the entire day and a half journey so far. They _must_ be close to Ivan’s house by now. No point messing it up now. “What’s the ru-”

He cut off as Ivan wrenched the steering wheel sideways, throwing Mathias against his door as they rattled down a small rutted lane. Mathias gritted his teeth – he wasn’t going to get angry, even if he hadn’t slept since the Soviets had invaded. He was going to remain calm. That’s what he was good at. He had. To stay. Calm.

Pushing down the worst of his anger, which settled like acid in the pit of his stomach. “What’s the rule?”

Ivan smirked, and Mathias fought down the irrational urge to push him out the car door. It had been a while since he’d been so irritable and so willing to act on his more violent urges.

Ivan turned to him again and let out a torrent of Russian. Mathias gritted his teeth, but before he could say something unadvisable, the car screeched to a halt and Mathias had to brace himself against the dashboard so that he didn’t go straight through the windscreen.

It was dusk now, but even then, Mathias’ first impressions of Ivan’s house didn’t fill him with much home. Maybe he was projecting his dislike of this entire situation, but in his opinion the building had a very definite ‘abandoned and quite possibly haunted insane asylum’ look about it.

It was quite large and made of unpainted wood, with a small balcony above the front door, and surrounded – from what Mathias could see in the gloom – with yet more forest. It had stairs leading the front door were lined with flower pots, which were, without exception, utterly devoid of any life. That, along with the overgrown grass that reached up to Mathias’ mid-shin, was probably due to neglect stemming from the war, but still. It didn’t add much to the image, and nor did they make Mathias feel any better. If it wasn’t for the lights coming from a few of the windows, the thin wisp of smoke coming from the chimney, and the occasional shadows of people that flickered past the lit windows. Mathias would think that it actually _was_ abandoned.

Mathias had heard many places described as ‘the middle of nowhere’, but this place really took the biscuit.

Ivan has already reached the door by the time Mathias gets out of the truck, and by the time he’s wandered over to the door Ivan’s already toed off his boots and stepped inside. Mathias followed his example and was inside a surprisingly nicely kept hallway. Along the walls were innumerable paintings of flowers, photographs of what appeared to be parades or other events, and one big map at the end of the hallway that had all of the satellite states and Soviet republics coloured in red. Denmark, as of now, was still safely white, and Mathias stared at the map for a second.

Ivan shouted something, making him jump as he took off his shoes and pushed them into line alongside Ivan’s massive boat-like army boots, and many other pairs of working boots and shoes that are lined up against the right-hand wall. But Ivan wasn’t yelling at him – he was just yelling in general, presumably to the other members of the household. Or maybe he’d just stubbed his toe. Who knew?

There was a little light scuffling from the other room, before someone stepped out of one of the doors. Yekaterina was smiling, but she looked thinner than Mathias remembered. They couldn’t be described as close friends, but they’d at least known each other for an awfully long time, and Mathias had always liked her.

She began speaking in Russian to Ivan but paused when she noticed Mathias stood beside him. She looked briefly surprised, but then her smile was back and she walked forward to give Ivan a hug. However, since she could _just_ rest her chin on Ivan’s shoulder if she stood on tip-toes, Mathias could still see her face. She’d stopped smiling, and now looked concerned.

 _Are you ok?_ she mouthed in German. Mathias shrugged and nodded, and she gave him a sad look, before letting go of Ivan and standing back, chattering in Russian once more.

Somebody else appeared at the door, and –

Mathias’ heart squeezed in his chest. Gilbert looked a mess. There was gauze over several cuts, and he had a black eye. Mathias wondered if those were from the war, or if they were fresh, before deciding very firmly not to think about it. Gilbert’s head was bowed, his shoulders, slumped and his face held an expression of absolute defeat – but he froze when he caught sight of Mathias. Mathias waved back, ignoring the way he could feel Ivan watching him, and then held his arms out to beckon Gilbert over to give him a hug.

Gilbert just stared at him for a few seconds, before he was hurrying down the hall and wrapping his thin arms around Mathias and clutching him hard. As he returned the hug, Mathias could feel his cousin trembling in a way he never should – and he could feel Gilbert’s ribs, too, underneath his thin shirt.

Mathias just squeezed tighter. He’d been worried about Gil, and not only that but he was the first nation Mathias had seen since the invasion other than Ivan, and quite frankly, he wanted some comfort too.

“What are you doing?” whispered Gilbert, “Why are you here, Mathias? What the _hell_ happened? You shouldn’t be here. You _can’t_ be here! How-”

Mathias opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, a pair of large, bony hands were separating them roughly. Yekaterina had her hand on Ivan’s shoulder, and she seemed to be trying to calm her brother down, but Ivan looked coldly furious, and Mathias could feel the anger that he’d banished rising up again like magma.

Ivan had turned his back to him and was confronting Gilbert, poking him in the chest before pushing him back against the wall. It wasn’t a particularly strong push, hardly enough to hurt, but Gilbert winced slightly and that was the straw that finally broke the camel’s back. Mathias stepped forward and shoved Ivan’s bony shoulder, ignoring Yekaterina’s frantic signals to stop.

“Leave him alone, dickhead!” he snapped in Danish, and even though he knew Ivan couldn’t understand him it made him feel a little better. Ivan turned, and for a minute Mathias thought he was going to start yelling at him instead, but instead a moment later Mathias’ face snapped to the side as Ivan backhanded him.

“Vanya!” Yekaterina gasped, stepping forward and grabbing her brother’s arm.

This was hardly the first time Mathias had ever been punched, not did he imagine that it would be the last, but _damn_. For a guy so skinny Ivan was _strong_. He’d certainly come a long way from the chubby little kid Mathias had first met all those years ago.

He also doesn’t fail to notice that this had hardly been the most successful first five minutes in the Soviet household.

Ivan was breathing hard like an enraged bull, but with Yekaterina whispering frantically into his ear, he seemed to be cooling off. Finally he just grunted and turned away, turning back to yell at Gilbert again. Mathias stepped forward again, but before he could do anything else, Yekaterina had stepped forward, caught his shoulder, and steered him away towards the stairs. He started to say something, but she shook her head quickly. Mathias resignedly followed her, mostly because her nails were beginning to dig into his shoulder, but also because she looked so tired.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, once they were upstairs and out of earshot, “I didn’t mean to make him angry.”

“It’s ok,” murmured Yekaterina, “Come on – in here.”

They stepped into a small bedroom, complete with two bunk beds. Three beds were covered with blankets and had pillows, but one of the bottom-bunks was bare. This is the one that Yekaterina motioned for him to sit down on. He did so, and she sat with him.

“This is your bed,” she said softly, keeping an eye on the door, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Mathias replies, following her lead and keeping his voice soft, “We didn’t have much of an army to fight back with. A few deaths from people who weren’t too happy about it.”

Yekaterina gave him a sympathetic smile and squeezed his hand. It had been a long time since somebody had held his hand, and Mathias blinked for a moment, surprised.

“I know it’s hard,” said Yekaterina, her teal-blue eyes serious, “But it’s usually best to go along with what Ivan says.”

Mathias heaved a sigh, feeling a little ashamed for letting his temper get the better of him.

“Sorry,” he said again, “I was in a bad mood. It won’t happen again.”

Yekaterina smiled. “It’s your first day. I’d be surprised if you weren’t in a bad mood.”

“Thanks, Yekaterina,” he said.

“Now, important notes,” said Yekaterina, suddenly brisk. “Chores are divided up amongst all of us – we’ll put you into the timetable tomorrow and figure things out. Shoes off when you come inside. In general, just do what Ivan says. You’ll get it in no time.”

Mathias smiled – but there was something niggling at the back of mind. “Uh… is Ivan always so, um, grumpy, himself?”

“Oh, no,” smiled Yekaterina, “He’s usually not that bad. He certainly doesn’t hit people like that very often – are you ok?”

“Fine.” In reality, Mathias’ cheek was still smarting, he’d cut the inside of his lip, and he was fairly certain his cheekbone would have quite an impressive bruise by tomorrow. “Does he… have an issue with people speaking German?”

The expression on Yekaterina’s face suggested that the news was not going to be good.

“Russian only, I’m afraid.” She did look genuinely sympathetic. “Do you speak Russian?”

Mathias grimaced. “I know how to order a beer,” he answered truthfully, because that was the only Russian phrase he knew and could say. “But that’s about it.”

“I’m sorry, Mathias, but you’ll just have to learn,” Yekaterina wrapped an arm around his shoulders and pulled him into a one-armed hug – it felt so weird. _Mathias_ was always the one to initiate hugs. “I don’t think Ivan will make any allowances.”

“You don’t say,” Mathias said, prodding his cut cheek with his tongue. Yekaterina squeezed his shoulders again.

“Come on,” she said, standing. “Dinner should be ready by now. Just remember – we’re all friends here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're wondering, Ivan's house is about ten miles from Arkhangelsk. I used to have his house near Yakutsk, but that just seems excessively inconvenient and far away. I know Arkhangelsk is also an inconvenient place to live if your government work is in Moscow but. Arkhangelsk was also used for WW2 shipments so it's not QUITE as isolated.


	5. Of Basements and Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve lost the war.”  
> That was… Not exactly a surprise, if Kiku was honest with himself. He’d long since accepted defeat. But there was something different this time- something wrong. He’d lost wars before. Usually, there was a sense of relief- his people would stop fighting, stop dying, and everyone would start to calm down a little. But not this time. He just felt a sick, roiling sensation in his stomach.  
> Something was very, very wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was posted before as an individual work, so if it's familiar, that's why.

**September, 1945**

“Dobro pozhalovat’, tovarishch!”

Kiku’s eyes – eye, what was wrong with the right one? – opened slowly and painfully, as he tried to adjust to the dim light of the room he was in. Rough, concrete walls, no windows, and cold air. As he breathed in, the air was musty and damp. He was underground, then. That was rarely good.

Even worse was the person sat beside his bed. Russia’s eyes gleamed brightly as they met Kiku’s – and something was wrong, something was very wrong, he could feel it but he couldn’t tell _what_ – a sinisterly childish smile on his thin face. The tall nation cocked his head, his smile widening, waiting for a response.

“I…” Kiku knew very little Russian besides a few passing phrases and words that were all probably horribly mispronounced. “What…”

His head felt fuzzy and clouded, everything just out of reach. Kiku couldn’t remember what had happened, but _something_ must have happened for him to have woken up in a basement with _Russia_ of all people for company. He blinked, trying to will some of the fog away, but it stubbornly resisted.

Where _was_ he? And why was Russia here with him? Russia was crazy and dangerous – that much Kiku could remember. Plus, they were enemies, so Kiku felt like he had a right to be concerned. He tried to sit up, but, terrifyingly, his body refused to respond. What was happening?

Kiku began to panic slightly, even though his brain and body felt drained and very much not in the mood for panic. Even though he had little doubt that with his clouded mind and the fact that the fire bombings and the food shortages had left him weak Russia could easily defeat him, the inability to move made his heart speed up.

Apparently, Russia noticed his alarm, because he giggled.

“Ah, no need to worry,” he said in Mandarin, and Kiku stared at him, barely able to move his head. He felt drained and exhausted. Sleep sounded _amazing_ right now. But going to sleep with only Russia for company? Not happening. “You are on a lot of medication.”

Medication. That would explain it, Kiku realised, but didn’t calm down much – he was still in some sort of basement, and with _Russia_.

“Why am I here?” He asked warily, also in Mandarin. It flowed easily from his tongue, and for a brief moment he thought of Yao, before pushing that thought down, as he had done for a long time. “Why are _you_ here?” He thought for another moment. “Where _is_ here?”

For a moment, Russia just smiled. “We’re in my house. I don’t believe you’ve ever been here before.”

“No.” Kiku wasn’t that stupid.

The horrible feeling was rising again – Russia looked far too self-satisfied, far too smug, far too _victorious_ for Kiku’s peace of mind. Something bad had happened. Very, very bad. He felt sick. _What was going on_?

“Russia-san,” he started, trying in vain to make his fingers move more than useless twitching against the scratchy blankets. “Why am I here? Please, what happened?”

Russia grinned then – not his usual childish smile, but a full on serial killer grin that made Kiku’s stomach tense, because if Russia smiled like that, it couldn’t be good. Kiku wasn’t so scared for himself – no matter what Ivan did he would always just wake up again, and at this point in the war, he was thoroughly beyond caring about his own safety – but something was telling him that something awful had happened.

“Ah, you really cannot remember, little Yaponiya?” Russia cooed, reaching over and patting his head lovingly. Kiku tried to move away, but he barely managed to flinch. Russia’s grin widened. “You’ve lost the war.”

That was… Not exactly a surprise, if Kiku was honest with himself. He’d long since accepted defeat. But there was something different this time- something wrong. He’d lost wars before. Usually, there was a sense of relief- his people would stop fighting, stop dying, and everyone would start to calm down a little. But not this time. He just felt a sick, roiling sensation in his stomach.

Something was very, very wrong.

 

 

Ivan, being Ivan, doesn’t deign to tell him any more than that.

Kiku was left in the basement – and that wasn’t ominous at all – trying to fight his way through the persistent fog of his mind. It was maddening. He couldn’t even leave the bed to stretch his legs. For one, all movement, no matter how slight, was still an enormous struggle – the best he could manage was tiny twitches of his fingers or maybe turning his head ever so slightly – and, second, because even if he _was_ able to stand and walk about, Ivan always made sure the lock the door behind him, and the basement room wasn’t all that big.

It was usually silent in the basement, but on occasion he could hear Ivan talking to someone else in another part of the basement; sometimes, he’d hear shouting. Occasionally, he’d hear somebody crying softly near his room. This didn’t do much to make Kiku feel any better about his present situation.

It would be less frustrating, he thought, if he had any way of knowing what time it was. Or even what _day_ it was. Ivan had alluded to the fact that he’d been unconscious for a while, but how long was a while? A few days? Weeks? _Months_? Ivan wouldn’t tell him, and Kiku couldn’t judge the time, or count the days, other than by instinct.

He had a strong feeling that he’d been awake, at least, for at least a few days now. As far as he could tell, Ivan was visiting him at least every day, and he was at least good enough to pop his head in in the mornings to flick on the lights, even if they did sometimes flicker and die randomly through the day, and then he’d turn them off when he left in the evenings. But, despite this, with his mind so foggy Kiku still struggled to keep a train of thought for more than five minutes, let alone complete the mental arithmetic required to figure out how long he’d been in Ivan’s basement, especially when he needed to factor in things like sleep times.

 

 

_Yao wouldn’t look at him._

_The small voice at the back of Kiku’s head said that this mistrust was fair enough. Kiku had, after all, injured him rather badly, and even though Kiku had made sure Yao was cared for by a doctor afterwards, it was still a savage thing to do. Barbaric, in fact, the voice told him._

_Kiku crushed that voice mercilessly, along with any regret that sprung up whenever he saw Yao moving so carefully, or wincing in Tai Chi practice, or just blanking him in the halls._

_His generals and higher-ups wanted him to speak to Yao, being under the misguided impression that if Yao was on side, China would be on side. Kiku had, on several occasions, had a tray of tea and perhaps some wagashi made up for this planned conversation with his brother, but every time, like clockwork, his courage failed him before he could enter Yao’s room._

_This only served to infuriate him, and just served to make him angry whenever Yao was around. To his surprise, this pleased several of his other generals, who congratulated him on taking a no-nonsense attitude with his ‘wayward’ Chinese brother. That had only made Kiku feel uncomfortable, which made him angrier around Yao, and the whole cycle repeated itself._

 

 

No matter how incapable he was of pulling together even a scrap of intelligence or focus for even ten minutes, Kiku still found himself pondering over the problem. Mostly, of course, because there wasn’t much else to do. The omnipresent fog in his mind seemed to be blocking his ability to sense what was going on in his home, but every time he tried he still felt a thrill of nauseating panic.

Sometimes, He’d slip into a daze where he didn’t think of anything at all – not quite asleep, just staring blankly at the ceiling. He didn’t know how long he did this for, but it concerned him all the same. He wasn’t someone who spaced out – He’d always prided himself on his focus and awareness. Although, he supposed, there wasn’t really much to be aware _of_ , down here.

 

 

_Kiku didn’t bother looking for Khulan. Partly because he had no doubt that she’d take a tremendous amount of enjoyment out of poking holes in his grand plan, but mostly because he had no interest in spending the next six months being led on a merry chase around the Mongolian Steppe. His sister may have helped him to learn how to follow tracks, but that also meant she knew how to hide her own better than almost anybody else he’d ever met, and Kiku had better things to be doing with his time. In any case, as the member of the family he was probably closest to, Khulan was the least of his worries for now._

 

 

Ivan visited him every day to administer medication. Kiku didn’t really know what it was, and Ivan never told him, but it was given to him with a needle, and Ivan’s visits were both the best and worst part of Kiku’s day.

On one hand, after hours and hours of the lonely emptiness of the basement room, it was nice to have a little company, even if Ivan’s special brand of company wouldn’t exactly be Kiku’s first choice. Even with the amount of time he spent asleep – which was a lot at the moment – it got a little lonely down in the basement, and this was coming from a man who had spent over two hundred and twenty years with only rare contact with his fellow nations. But this was different, alone and cold in a foreign country, not knowing what was happening back home, unable to move.

On the other hand, this was Ivan, and he seemed to draw significant amusement from taunting Kiku, alluding to facts and events he didn’t know, playing mind games, and generally being annoying. That wasn’t even including the daily needle in the shoulder, which Kiku couldn’t actually feel (and that worried him even more than the fact that Ivan of all people was in charge of administering medication, to be honest).

“ _Kak ty segodnya_ , _Yaponiya_?” He would coo every day, before seating himself on the little stool beside Kiku’s bed. Kiku would attempt to formulate some cutting response – he never knew when Ivan would turn up, so he could never adequately prepare himself – before giving up when it proved too difficult in his fuzzy mind.

“ _Rossiya_ ,” He’d say – after the first two weeks or so, Ivan had no longer appreciated the use of either Chinese or Japanese, and ‘-san’ apparently counted. Ivan had gently put this idea forward by putting a massive hand around Kiku’s throat and squeezing until black spots were blinking in front of his eyes when Kiku had asked him a question in Japanese. Unfortunately, being in a drug-induced haze wasn’t particularly conducive to mastering a new language, so picking up Russian was slow going, and so far, the only new word that Kiku had learnt that hadn’t immediately slipped from his mind was ‘Russia’.

Once that communication was over, Ivan would chatter away in rapid-fire Russian – apparently hoping that Kiku would learn this _impossible_ language via osmosis or something – and Kiku would try to separate the individual words, before inevitably failing and instead wondering just why Ivan insisted on wearing that same military jacket with all of his shiny medals _every day_. (Did he wear it everywhere? He couldn’t do, surely. Maybe he kept it on a special hook outside the room and pulled it on before he came to bother Kiku. If he did, that was a level of pathetic-ness that even some of Kiku’s more posturing generals would struggle to emulate.)

 

 

_“You’re an idiot, little brother,” Lien rolled the bánh cam around in her fingers, her cheek propped up on her fist. “If you think this is a good idea.”_

_“It is a good idea, sensei,” he ground out. They’d been having this same conversation in a circle for the last half an hour, and Kiku was well aware that they weren’t going anywhere. He raised a hand and scrubbed his hand over his shaven head, his hair cut short for practical reasons whilst he was out in the field. “Asians for Asians.”_

_“That’s great, on paper,” drawled Lien, putting down the treat and brushing sesame seeds from her fingers._

_“It’s great in practice,” snapped Kiku. “My people are protecting Asia from the imperialist Europeans. We modernised without them – we’ll help the rest of Asia to do the same. Without the violence.”_

_“Oh? Without the violence?” Lien’s voice was suddenly razor sharp, but Kiku held his ground and didn’t allow himself to waver, just like she’d always taught him. “What do you call what your people did in Nanking, for example, boy? And don’t think I haven’t heard of that little torture chamber your people are running in China.”_

_Kiku remained silent, his back ramrod straight._

_“I don’t know, little brother.” Lien sat up and stretched. “What your people are doing – what you are doing – seems pretty violent to me.” She waved a hand to the waitress, who cast Kiku a nervous look. Lien raised an eyebrow at him, and, with a muscle pulsing in his jaw, he paid their bill. “So, thank you for the offer, boy, but I think I’ll pass, thanks.”_

_“It wasn’t an offer, Sensei,” he growled. “It’s going to happen. You may as well accept it.”_

_“Boy.” Lien’s voice was sharp. “Have you ever known me to give up a fight?”_

_“No,” he grudgingly admitted. Lien threw back her head and tied back her long brown hair._

_“Well, I’ll see you later, little brother,” his sister gazed at him for a long moment. “I hope you see sense soon.”_

_Kiku opened his mouth to tell her he saw sense perfectly well, thank you very much, but she’d already disappeared into the swirling crowds of her people._

 

 

Finally, Ivan stopped giving him the medication. He didn’t explain why. Well, to be fair, maybe he did, but he did so in Russian. Since Kiku was no closer to understanding conversational Russian as he had been when he first arrived, Ivan may as well have explained it in, so Kiku was none the wiser as to what the reason was.

In a way, he was glad that the medication was stopped. He had a feeling that it was to blame for the fog in his mind, and he was really fucking sick of it.

However, it hadn’t occurred to him how much pain his body was actually in, and he soon regretted losing it. Sure, it was nice to be able to move and think more clearly, but there was the downside of feeling as though he’d been dipped in gasoline and set on fire.

Kiku had been through uncountable battles throughout his long life – both internal and otherwise – but nothing compared to this. It was a burning, sick sort of feeling, making his empty stomach feel nauseous. He’d been burnt before – the fire-bombings of his cities came painfully to mind – but this was the worst thing he’d ever felt. It felt like the burning was still happening, gnawing deep into his melted flesh and diseased bones. It didn’t matter how he twisted – he was capable of some movement now – or how he attempted to hold the coarse blankets slightly off his body, he was in constant agony. On the plus side, he was still capable of sleeping for hours at a time, and he attempted to remain asleep for as long as possible.

 

 

_Unlike Yao, Kiku did manage to sit down and have tea with the Korean twins – one time for each twin, and he was thoroughly convinced that not one of them ever derived even an ounce of pleasure from the experiences._

_The first time was with Yong Mi, not long after the March 1 st Movement. Kiku wasn’t sure why it was then that he decided to reopen communications with her – they may have been sharing a house, but they rarely spoke to each other; Kiku was barely there, what with war meetings and fighting in the war itself, and even when he was Yong Mi wasn’t that fussed on speaking to him anyway._

_Perhaps predictably, their meeting wasn’t a raging success. Kiku wasn’t even sure why he instigated it in the first place (guilt, an irritating voice told him; you’re guilty), but he dutifully brought a tray of green tea and delicate rice cakes to the chabudai, and motioned for the other to sit, which Yong Mi did, after a moment of deliberation where she looked as though she was seriously considering kicking Kiku squarely in the face._

_Conversation had been… well, it hadn’t exactly been flowing._

_Yong Mi was wearing a pale blue Western dress, just as Yong Soo usually wore a shirt and trousers, largely because they were both forbidden from wearing hanbok. That was a rule from Kiku’s higher-ups, not Kiku himself – he was out most of the time, after all, and frankly he couldn’t really care less what they were wearing when he was in – but keeping his bosses happy just made his life easier. The plan at first from his bosses had been for them to wear kimono or yukata or something, but both the Korean twins had been quite clear on the point that they’d rather go naked than wear kimono. Kiku hadn’t been present at the time, but the workers had informed him through heavy blushes and stuttering horror that this was a threat they were both quite happy to come good on. So Western clothing it was._

_Kiku had taken over conversation, and it felt very strange, to be the more talkative one between he and Yong Mi. He spoke of anything he could think of – Todai-ji Shunie had gone well in Kumamoto, had Yong Mi seen the Hina Matsuri celebrations taking place, and the cherry blossoms would be blooming soon, would he like to go and see them? Meanwhile, Yong Mi just sat there and stared at him as if in caustic amazement._

_Kiku had finally given up – around the same time that Yong Mi’s untouched tea had gone cold and it was obvious that Kiku was getting nowhere with this (and also obvious that he was not a skilled conversationalist in any sense)._

_“You can leave,” He’d finally said, defeated. Yong Mi had wasted no time in climbing to her feet and sweeping out of the room, leaving Kiku alone._

_*_

_The next time he’d tried was with Yong Soo in 1943, not long before Kiku had given up entirely and let them go home._

_“I hear you’ve withdrawn from Guadalcanal.” Yong Soo’s voice had been taunting, insolent, and Kiku’s head prickled with irritation._

_“That’s right.”_

_“And I hear you lost Mount Austen.”_

_Kiku remained silent, his fingers tapping against the cup._

_“And isn’t it right that the Australians have started using their own planes to shoot down yours?”_

_Yong Soo was unbearably smug._

_“Oh, and didn’t you have a bit of a loss near New Guinea? And again at those Russian islands?”_

_Patience, Kiku. Have patience. He doesn’t understand._

_“So,” Yong Soo leant forward, mockingly enquiring. “Still confident that you’ll win this war, Japan?”_

_“Be quiet,” Kiku finally snapped, his hand tightening around his teacup. Yong Soo grinned and took a sip of his own drink. Kiku gritted his teeth and longed to hit him. He hadn’t come here to be mocked. He’d come here… Why had he come here? He couldn’t remember. He was sure there had been a good reason, however._

_“It’s OK,” cooed Yong Soo, his tone breathtakingly patronising. “Maybe those white devils you go on about will give you a hand after they’ve crushed you, huh?”_

_“I said, be quiet.”_

_“You’ll need their help, too,” nodded Yong Soo, as though he was an expert on the subject. “Since there’s no way in HELL you’ll get any help from any part of Asia after all this.”_

_Kiku pressed his lips in a thin line. If they didn’t want to help him – fine! He didn’t need their help. He would win this war. Asia for Asians. He was doing the right thing, if anything – he was helping them. (You’re not, whispered the voice. He ignored it.)_

_“I mean, you’ve made an enemy out of pretty much all of Asia,” went on Yong Soo. “I mean, China, Korea, Vietnam – we’re not going to help you. And I think you can forget about India and the cousins. There’s Australia and New Zealand – wait, nope, they hate you too. Let’s see… Maybe if the Allies help Germany, your good old ally might send you supplies sometimes!”_

_“Shut up.”_

_“Or, who knows! Maybe you’ll be invaded by America – he’ll probably want to keep an eye on you. Hey! Maybe even Russia-”_

_“I SAID SHUT UP!” Kiku slammed his hands on the chabudai and got to his feet, fury bubbling in his stomach. Yong Soo stared insolently up at him, before standing up also, towering over Kiku – he was over a foot taller, he had been for centuries, but Kiku had never seen him look so big before. Yong Soo wasn’t smiling anymore – his grin had morphed into a glare._

_“What’s wrong, Ilbon? Can’t face the truth?”_

_“You’re speaking nonsense,” snarled Kiku. “You’re speaking nonsense – we will win this war! Asians for Asians! My leaders are trying to help yours! You should be grateful!”_

_“GRATEFUL?” Kiku almost flinched back in the face of Yong Soo’s rage, but he stood his ground. “Grateful? For what? The massacres? You taking away my culture? Which one?”_

_Kiku swallowed. “My people are saving Asia from the Europeans.”_

_“Really?” Yong Soo’s slate-grey eyes flashed, “Because it seems more to me that we Asians need to be saved from you.”_

_There was a lump in Kiku’s throat. He was tired. He hurt all over. He didn’t want to be yelled at. But he didn’t let that show – he couldn’t show weakness in front of Yong Soo. Not now._

_“You don’t unde-”_

_WHAM._

_Kiku sprawled on the tatami, one hand reaching up to touch his smarting jaw. Yong Soo was still stood in a fighting stance, his fist still raised where he’d punched Kiku in the jaw. One of his teeth was loose in his mouth, and he could taste the iron of his blood. His lip was split, and blood was running down his chin. He blinked._

_Ouch. He hadn’t been hit that hard in a while._

_“Don’t,” said Yong Soo, face livid with fury. “Don’t tell me I don’t understand anything.”_

_Then, just like his sister before him, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the room, leaving Kiku to spit out his missing tooth – which was nicely matched by the tooth he’d lost last month on the other side of his mouth. (He actually gave himself a nasty fright when he walked past the mirror in the hallway, wearing his black military jacket, lividly pale and with pool pouring from his mouth.)_

_He didn’t speak to Yong Soo again after that._

 

 

It was _cold_ down there, he realised now. Horribly cold. Cold enough that his fingers and toes ached and lost feeling, and he was faintly surprised they didn’t actually freeze solid.

According to Ivan, they were in some place called Arkhangelsk. At least, that was what Kiku _thought_ he said – he thought he’d heard the word when Ivan was babbling to him, and when he’d repeated it (his voice scratchy with disuse) in a questioning tone, Ivan’s face had lit up and – for a moment – he’d looked genuinely happy. Then he’d gone on another tirade, still babbling nonsense, although Kiku was beginning to be able to separate some of the words in his mind.

So, Arkhangelsk. Maybe. Since Kiku had no clue where that was – was it in European Russia or Asian Russia? – he supposed it didn’t really matter all that much. In any case, he was still in Russia, so he supposed that it wasn’t unusual for it to be so cold – but still deeply unpleasant.

At first, Kiku had hoped that maybe the cold would sooth his burns, or at least partly numb them, but nothing doing. He hurt all over, he was absolutely freezing, but his burns, well, burnt. He felt sick and sometimes wanted to cry from the pain – but he didn’t. He hadn’t shed a tear since he was a small child, and he wasn’t going to let _America_ get him down.

 

 

_Mei Cheng had always been his special one, and he brought her to have tea as often as time permitted._

_Although she was younger than Jia Long, and had been born only a few years before the beginning of isolation, Abel had brought her to see him when he visited Dejima. She was gentle and sweet, always ready to learn his customs, always eager to go for walks with him when she visited. He never had her company long enough to really teach her very much of his language, and the law of the time forbade him from taking her to see any of the landmarks of his home, but he was immensely fond of her, and missed her presence when Abel visited after the Dutch lost Formosa permanently to China._

_After the end of isolation, he’d been amazed at how fast she’d grown – already a teenager! It had taken him centuries to grow up. Either way, she was still the same as he remembered, and after she came to live with him, he rewarded her for her loyalty with gifts and privileges. Not that she was very loyal – he realised now that anything of value that he said was passed right back to China. He’d known that even then, deep down – but he hadn’t wanted to believe it, so he’d repressed the knowledge. _

_He hadn’t wanted to see that he was driving a wedge between them._

 

 

In many ways, being in the basement room was like being doused in cold water, and not only because of the literal cold.

It was like seeing clearly for the first time in a while, or like waking up after having been asleep for a long, long time. It was freeing in a way – like escaping from a prison cell in his mind.

On the other hand, he’d been put into an _actual_ prison cell, with nothing but the company of his thoughts, and that was a dangerous thing. At the beginning, when he could do nothing but lay there in pain and try to take his mind off his injuries, he was forced to confront quite a few home truths, and was quite frankly shocked by how blind he’d been. He’d always considered himself such a rational and logical person – but there had been nothing rational or logical about his actions in the last few decades.

_How_ had he been so stupid? How could he _ever_ have thought that any part of that was a good idea? His people had hurt so many others – _he’d_ hurt so many others.

Kiku remembered his sister during the Mongolian Empire – he remembered the madness in her eyes, her cruel words, the sword plunging towards him – but he’d never thought that that madness would affect _him_. But it had. And he’d been powerless to stop it.

 

 

_Yong Soo and Xiao Chun were always together. Kiku made a half-hearted attempt to split them up, but at the beginning he was too busy fighting, and by the time he was around at home more to notice, he was far too tired to care._

_He barely spoke to Xiao Chun, mostly because he had never really spoken to him or his brother at any point beforehand. He barely knew them, to be quite frank. Xiao Chun had come into being when Kiku had been in isolation, and by the time He’d come out of it, his younger brother was living in London with Arthur._

_Jia Long, on the other hand, he had known, albeit not particularly well. The boy had come into being just two or so years before he was taken by Jo_ _ão, and Kiku had met him just twice whilst visiting Yao in China. He’d liked the boy well enough – polite, calm, intelligent – but they’d failed to connect on any deeper level. Kiku had mostly spoken to Yao – the closest he ever got to bonding with Jia Long was over a game of Go when it was raining one afternoon._

_Perhaps because they’d never really spoken, Kiku had never really felt the need to bother Xiao Chun much when the boy had lived at his house. In his arrogance, Kiku had seen him as being of no consequence. He was just a tiny region, a miniscule part of China. Strategically important, but ridiculously small nonetheless. Whether Xiao Chun approved of his plan or not – who cared?_

_But he found he did care, especially since Xiao Chun went out of his way to get on his nerves. Jia Long he remembered as being fairly inoffensive, but his brother…_

_From the first time Kiku had met him during a meeting with Arthur before the war, he’d been under the impression that the boy didn’t like him very much, so at least he had the satisfaction of being right. Xiao Chun was haughty, proud and stubborn and so… childish. (It was no wonder he and Yong Soo got along so well, he thought bitterly, running his tongue over the gap in his teeth.)_

_He could hardly be bothered._

_He regretted that now._

Kiku soon came to learn, as time went on, that not only was Russian not as impossible as it had first appeared (not easy, by any stretch of the imagination, but Ivan’s visits meant he was slowly beginning to pick up on words and their meanings), but that Ivan was willing to tell him things if he asked in Russian.

Not everything, but basic information: for instance, by the time he was capable of asking, Kiku discovered that the month was now the September of 1946. He was able to sit up, now, and walk around, but not without a lot of effort, and not without opening the horrific wounds that criss-crossed his body. (They still hurt. He sometimes wondered if they’d ever _stop_ hurting.)

Ivan was coy when it came to information of the international or recent news variety, but he was always happy to remind Kiku of just what his situation was.

Japan, Kiku’s nation, Kiku _himself_ , was no longer a sovereign nation.

“You’re part of Russia now, Tolenka,” Ivan had beamed, his violet eyes gleaming maniacally. “The Japanese Autonomous Okrug. It’s a nice name, huh!”

_No_ , Japan had wanted to tell him, _No, it’s a terrible name._

“And that means that _you_ are now Russian!”

_No, I’m not._

“And your name isn’t Russian.”

_Because neither am I._

“So, you have a new name!”

_Please no._

But he couldn’t dissuade Ivan – he couldn’t fight, he was still far too weak. Hell, he didn’t even have enough command over Russian to pronounce his argument properly, let alone phrase it so it made sense. So Ivan continued to call him “Anatoliy Sokolov” unhindered, whilst Kiku ached for home.

He didn’t leave that basement for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translatio/ns:  
> Dobro pozhalovat”, tovarishch: Welcome back, comrade! (Russian)  
> Bánh Cam: A deep fried rice ball covered with sesame seeds.
> 
> Other Information:  
> What do you call what your people did in Nanking, for example, little brother? And don’t think I haven’t heard of that little torture chamber your people are running in China.  
> Lien’s making reference to the Nanking Massacre (December 1937 – January 1938), where an estimated 300,000 plus civilians were killed by the Japanese army. She”s also referencing Unit 731 where the Japanese experimented on live humans – usually Chinese, Korean or Russian, although POWs of other nationality were also used.   
> March 1st Movement  
> The March 1st Movement was a public display of Korean resistance under Japanese occupation in 1919. The Korean Declaration of Independence was read aloud in Seoul. A subsequent peaceful procession was violently supressed by the Japanese army, and several thousand Korean protestors were killed.  
> Todai-ji Shunie and Hina Matsuri  
> These are both festivals that take place during March in Japan.  
> “I hear you’ve withdrawn from Guadalcanal.”  
> Operation Ke, a largely successful Japanese withdrawal from Guadalcanal, began on January 14th of 1943.  
> “And I hear you lost Mount Austen.”  
> Mount Austen was a mountain controlled by the Japanese on Guadalcanal – it was captured by the Allies on January 23rd of 1943.  
> “And isn’t it right that the Australians have started using their own planes to shoot down yours.”  
> The first Spitfire used above Darwin, Australia on February 6th, 1943. It shot down a Japanese Mu Ki-46.  
> “Oh, and didn’t you have a bit of a loss near New Guinea?”   
> During the Battle of the Bismarck Sea, Australian and American air forces devastated a Japanese naval convoy on March 3rd, 1943.  
> “And again at those Russian islands?”  
> The Battle of Komandorski Islands ended in an American strategical victory on March 26th of 1943.  
> Jia Long, Xiao Chun and Mei Cheng  
> Headcanon names for Macau, Hong Kong and Taiwan (later on they use native pronunciations of their names - aka Cantonese/Hokkien readings rather than Mandarin - but not yet.)  
> João and Abel  
> João Monteiro is my headcanon name for Portugal, and Abel de Vries is my headcanon name for Netherlands.  
> Isolation and Dejima  
> Under the Japanese isolationist policy, or Sakoku, only the Dutch were allowed to come and trade with the Japanese, and only at the island of Dejima.


	6. Of New Names and Strange Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You ok?” asked Gilbert, because for all the teasing he got, Mathias’ cousin was very perceptive when he wanted to be.  
> Of course, Mathias could have said something – everyone else was engaged in conversation amongst themselves, so it wasn’t like they would be listened in on. But Mathias didn’t have words to describe what was bothering. It was just a little twinge of something undefinably different. Besides, Gilbert had enough of his own problems to be worrying about, without Mathias adding to them.  
> “Fine,” he responded, “Just a little tired.”

**2 nd October 1945**

From the very moment he crawled out of bed that morning, Mathias was aware that something was wrong. Well, no – not _wrong_. Just… different. Something had changed. But these days, in this political climate, any change back home made Mathias nervous, because it wasn’t like Ivan would tell him what was going on, and the newspapers they got were worse than knowing nothing, quite frankly.

Still, feeling weird wasn’t an excuse to lay around in bed all day – even Emil would have had to come up with a better story than that, no matter how soft Mathias may have been when he’d been looking after him – so he didn’t bother to mention it as he stood with his roommates to have a quick wash and a shave. Not that he needed to bother – Gilbert and Martin were too busy bickering over which was better, Nikolaikirche in Berlin or the Blue Church in Bratislava, and Gjöke was never at his best in the mornings.

So he was left in peace to ponder over what was happening as they all got dressed, and nobody questioned him when he remained at the back of the group when they headed downstairs to get breakfast.

Over breakfast, the argument was ended by Natalya telling Gilbert and Martin very firmly to shut up. Oddly enough, Ivan said nothing, even though he could be a little funny about them mentioning their home countries sometimes. Since Martin had Anastazie to talk to and Gjöke was busy being pestered by Magdalena, Gilbert’s attention was diverted back to Mathias (usually Mathias would attempt to move his focus to something else – usually Erzsébet – but she was busy glaring at Vasilica that morning).

“You ok?” asked Gilbert, because for all the teasing he got, Mathias’ cousin was very perceptive when he wanted to be.

Of course, Mathias could have said something – everyone else was engaged in conversation amongst themselves, so it wasn’t like they would be listened in on. But Mathias didn’t have words to describe what was bothering. It was just a little twinge of something undefinably _different_. Besides, Gilbert had enough of his own problems to be worrying about, without Mathias adding to them.

“Fine,” he responded, “Just a little tired.”

Gilbert nodded understandingly. It was tiring, being part of the USSR. Even now that the very worst of the purges and governmental changes were behind him, Mathias still felt so tired all of the time as the new system was put into place and everything changed. According to Yekaterina, he’d soon get used to it and feel more normal again, but it was still very annoying.

In any case, this excuse seemed to satisfy Gilbert, because he turned again to say something teasing to Erzsébet, leaving Mathias once again to stew in peace, poking at his rather sparse breakfast whilst he searched his mind for what it could be. Being a nation meant he had a connection to his nation, but it was rarely strong enough to pinpoint individual small events like this. On one hand, Mathias appreciated being able to tell when something really bad happened, and he liked having some warning; on the other hand, its vagueness irritated him sometimes.

“Matvei!”

Mathias glanced up, his hand pausing halfway to his mouth with some breakfast and met Ivan’s gaze. Ivan looked… oddly happy. But not a good kind of happy; a smug, self-satisfied kind of happy. The kind of happy that made discomfort settle in Mathias’ stomach.

“Yes, tovarishch?” he asked politely, because Ivan being happy was hardly a good reason to start an argument. Something about this made Ivan smile even wider – it may have been the use of his number one favourite word in the entire universe, on reflection, but Mathias couldn’t bring himself to care that much. He’d held off using the term for ages when he’d arrived, but quite frankly, what difference did it make in the end?

“I wanted to ask if you’d come into town with me after breakfast,” answered Ivan, and whilst it was very obviously an order rather than a request, the polite phrasing was still rather unusual, and that just added to Mathias’ steadily growing discomfort. Besides, Ivan’s initial dislike of Mathias hadn’t waned in the slightest in the five months he’d been in Russia (in fact, if anything, it had _grown_ ), so it seemed bizarre that Ivan should deliberately seek out his company.

“Of course.”

 

Mathias still didn’t like Ivan’s obnoxiously large vehicle, _especially_ not when it was just two people in it. When the whole household was on the move, it made sense – three people could sit up front (in other words, Ivan, Yekaterina and Natalya could sit up front) whilst the rest of them could sit in the trailer at the back. Well, they were _supposed_ to sit – mostly to set a good example to Daniel – but usually most of the adults stood and joked around and threatened to push each other off.

When it was just two people, however, it was nowhere near as fun. Mathias was left to sit in the cab with Ivan, at first in silence as they drove away from the house and out onto the road. But still, Mathias was nervous. Ivan so rarely sought out his company – in fact, he usually only did so to ‘break bad news’, although it was more like ‘gloat over bad news’, in Mathias’ bitter opinion.

Still fresh in his mind was the last ‘breaking the bad news’ event. Ivan had asked him to come and help him get in some firewood, and had ‘casually mentioned’ (Ivan really wasn’t much of an actor, it had been so obvious that he’d been dying to tell Mathias what had happened all that day) that King Christian had passed away.

According to Ivan and the newspapers, it had been a natural death; a heart attack, the newspaper had said. But Mathias knew better. He’d been around too long to fall for something like that. King Christian had been executed. He didn’t know how, but he knew that that’s what had happened. Ivan hadn’t even bothered to be particularly subtle about his lies.

Still, nobody said anything. Everyone just accepted that King Christian had died a natural, totally unsuspicious death. And that hurt, and not only because Mathias _liked_ his monarchy – because he’d liked King Christian as a person. He’d known him ever since he’d been a baby, just as he’d known every single one of his royals, and whilst he would never say that he’d liked every single one of them, he was very attached to them.

The point was that, with the rest of the royal still safely in Sweden, for all intents and purposes, Mathias no longer had a king or queen – for the first time in centuries. It was such a small thing, really – it wasn’t as though his government would collapse without them – but King Christian’s death had still left Mathias feeling bereft for several weeks after he’d been told. His only comfort was that Alexandrine, Knud and Frederick and all of their children were still alive – his monarchy wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

(He’d also hoped and hoped that maybe, just maybe, _this_ would be what caught the attention of the outside world. That maybe this clear and obvious assassination of a royal would promote some sort of backlash. But… nothing. The rest of the world remained silent.)

So, Mathias felt as though he had every reason to have some trepidation about being alone with Ivan.

But for all of the drive into town, Ivan was silent, and Mathias followed suit. They remained silent as they picked up some groceries and a newspaper, and Mathias’ heart sank when Ivan was careful not to show him the front page, and instead ushered him back into the car like he was some sort of wayward child.

Finally, on the way back to the house, Mathias broke. He couldn’t take Ivan’s smug little knowing looks any longer. He asked, as politely as he possibly could, if there was anything going on back home? He did think, once he’d said it, that he might’ve ruined his chances by describing Denmark as his home, and thereby insinuating that the house wasn’t, but Ivan didn’t seem to notice.

Ivan didn’t answer immediately – instead, he pulled off of the road, and parked up at the side. Since this wasn’t exactly the busiest road in Russia, Mathias didn’t really see the point; in fact, being so stationary seemed to make the cab even colder than it had been already. Mathias shivered, and snuggled further into his coat.

Ivan switched off the truck, before turning to Mathias. There was a spiteful kind of victory in his eyes. Mathias did his best to brace himself for whatever was coming.

“Well, Matvei,” he started, and once Mathias would have resented that nickname, but he’d given up on that one a while ago, “You remember what we were talking about last month?”

“Yes,” ground out Mathias, because if there was one thing Ivan was good at, it was twisting the knife.

“Well, we were thinking; a kingdom with no king…” Ivan laughed lightly, “It’s ridiculous!”

Mathias said nothing, even as Ivan watched him out of the corner of his eye.

“So, it didn’t make much sense for your country to be the Kingdom of Denmark,” he continued, “So it was decided a new name was in order. Obviously the government thought about making Denmark a republic, but instead they settled on Denmark remaining a Satellite State. Are you happy?”

“Delighted,” responded Mathias, uncaring if he was rude, because he couldn’t stand the unbearable degree of relish Ivan seemed to be taking in telling him this.

“So, your new name is the People’s Republic of Denmark. Isn’t that nice?”

Mathias ground his teeth. He didn’t feel cold anymore – his molten, bubbling fury warming him up from the inside out. It wasn’t so much that he hated the name in and of itself, it was what it represented that bothered him. All he could think about was Anatoliy, the personification of Japan, and how his country had been renamed – and then he had. He hadn’t seen him yet, but Ivan had mentioned him once or twice.

Still, there was a chance, albeit a small one, that this was all a trick. That it was some sort of sick joke concocted by Ivan just to upset him. Mathias took a deep breath and tried to stop his hands from shaking.

“Are you serious?” he asked and hated himself when his voice cracked. Ivan smiled, a cruel, vicious smile, and the boiling fury rose further.

And Ivan probably thought of himself as such a good actor that nobody could see what he was doing, but Mathias knew, and he knew Ivan was trying the same thing with him. The Soviets were slowly chipping away at everything that had made Denmark Denmark, and in doing so, Ivan was going to chip away at everything that made Mathias Mathias, until he was just an obedient drone. Of course, others would probably say that Mathias was being paranoid, and that it was a simple change in name that would have no long-term affect, but…

Mathias wasn’t a genius. He was terrible at mental arithmetic, he sometimes struggled with reading, and even after centuries of on and off teaching, his Ancient Greek was rusty, and even his Latin still had the hint of an accent. But if there was one thing Mathias knew, it was people. He knew how they worked, he knew how they operated, and he could usually guess what their intentions were with pretty good accuracy.

And for all that written words could trouble him at times, Mathias could most certainly read, and by this point he was almost entirely able to read in Russian. Because of this, he read newspapers, and for all that most stories reported on were nothing more than propaganda (and even that could be a goldmine of useful information, if you knew how and where to look), on occasion the stories were true. And a favourite story, when the news was slow, and they couldn’t think of any new pieces of misinformation to give out, they’d turn back to Japan. More specifically, how well the newest part of the Russian SFSR was doing after the war; how ‘the natives’ are picking up Russian very well as their new national language and are abandoning ‘barbaric practices’. Clearly, the vast majority of this is just absolute tosh to serve the Kremlin, but as stated before: Mathias knew people. Not only that, but Mathias had many centuries of life experience behind him. And that meant that Mathias was good at reading between the lines.

Of course, he couldn’t say for sure that he was correct. Such things were impossible. Besides, Mathias had never been further into Asia than visits to Turkey and the Middle East – any knowledge he possessed on the cultural nature of the Far East was gained through books and talking to those who _had_ visited. In fact, even with Far Eastern personifications, Mathias’ experience was sorely limited. He’d met some, but only in solemn, political environments – none could be described as friends. As for Japan, Mathias had only met him once before now, many years ago on a diplomatic friendship-mission to Copenhagen in the nineteenth century.

But despite his inexperience, Mathias knew what this meant. Cultural and linguistic repression, short and simple. The Bolsheviks attempting to wipe out anything that made them unique, so as to make the Japanese fit in better with the Soviet system.

Obviously, the measures being taken in Japan were far more fast-acting and extreme than what was happening or would happen to Denmark – after all, at least Mathias’ nation had remained a sovereign country – but Mathias could see the signs. If the Kremlin had their way, the very same thing was in Denmark’s future.

“No,” said Ivan. “No, I am not joking.”

There was a note of amusement and self-satisfaction in his voice, a note that made Mathias’ blood boil. A note that mocked him for the catch in his voice, that one tiny moment of weakness. Mathias took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He was a good actor. He could do this. He wouldn’t let himself break like that again in Ivan’s presence – _ever_ again.

**Author's Note:**

> I know he seems pretty mean in this chapter, but I promise, Lukas ain't a bad bean.
> 
> Seeri - APH Greenland


End file.
